Epilogue
Daisy
Two months later
“This beard itches,” Patrick says, wearing the same flustered look he would occasionally get when he was a boy.
I giggle. He’s standing in front of the full-length mirror in the upstairs bedroom we converted into my office, wearing a rented Santa suit and looking hotter than any Santa has a right to.
We opened the new Moss and Maple location four weeks ago—just a month after Patrick surprised me on the front lawn, revealing the side of himself I’d only ever known behind a screen. We put in an offer on the house that week and rushed escrow.
The past month has been a whirlwind of relocation and community kindness.
Neighbors and friends poured in the day we moved—trucks lining the street and gravel lot, laughter spilling through the old house one last time.
Within a week, every shelf in the new shop was stocked—ready for the new chapter to begin.
People filled the lawn and wrapped down the block for our official grand opening.
I miss the old property, but I’ve barely had a minute to dwell on the loss since we started this project of relocation.
Cass’ words to me sit in a frame behind the cash register, a daily reminder that the heart of what we do for our communities isn’t bound to a location.
We are that heartbeat, and the place where we serve our friends and neighbors is secondary to the spirit of love behind our actions.
“Here. Better?” I ask, tugging gently at the fake white hair to free it from the elastic.
“No,” he pouts, but his eyes sparkle. “Be my Mrs. Claus.”
“Are you proposing, Saint Nick?” My eyes crinkle and I look up at him through my lashes.
“Not yet.” He winks. His eyes study me, darting between mine.
We’ve talked about our future. Are we moving quickly? Probably. Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like rushing. We’re making up for all the years we lost holding grudges and allowing hurt to blind us from our true feelings.
Patrick’s either at my side of the duplex or I’m at his every night he’s off shift.
And those Kelly shifts are my favorite. Every three or four weeks Patrick has nearly four days off in a row.
On his last Kelly rotation, we asked Effie, Waylon, Winona, and my new hire, Jane, to cover the shop so Patrick could take me to the cabin he once told me about in an email.
Waylon’s still at the thrift shop, but he picks up shifts here on his off time.
Winona’s stint serving tea didn’t last long—turns out she truly was a bull in a china shop.
She’s back here part-time now, talking about nursing school after reading a romance about a nurse and her patient.
Only Winona would pick a career because of a fictional meet-cute.
Patrick’s cabin was exactly as I had imagined it.
A place tucked in the Smokies with views for days.
And even though we went at the tail end of fall, the landscape did not disappoint.
We hiked in the woods, spent late nights around the fire, and snuggled up on the porch with blankets and our books.
It was hands down the best four days of my life.
“Do you know how much I love you?” Patrick asks, a smile quirking beneath that ridiculous beard.
I giggle again because even in my wildest childhood dreams, I never longed for Santa to profess his love to me.
“Why is that funny?” Patrick asks, a serious expression on his gorgeous face.
“Because, you’re Santa.”
“That’s Santa Baby to you,” he smiles and wags his dark eyebrows—a contrast to the stark white of his wig and beard.
I look up at him, taking in everything that’s mine. He’s mine now. And he reminds me I’m his every single day.
“Okay, Santa Baby,” I play along. “How much do you love me?”
“Enough to wear this suit even if it gives me beard rash.”
“That’s a lot of love,” I say, my voice dreamy. “And I love you. So much.”
He shakes his head lightly. “I can’t believe we made it here. You gave me another chance.”
“You made it so easy for me,” I remind him. “You did all the heavy lifting.”
“Firefighter workouts make heavy lifting light work.”
We laugh and he wraps his arms around me. We’re separated by the pillow stuffed under his red coat with black buttons and fur collar.
We’re ridiculously in love with one another—so sweet, we probably shouldn’t be seen in public until this initial hum between us fades.
I’m assuming it will, but maybe I’m wrong.
There’s something about finding someone you almost lost that makes you appreciate the fact that you have them more precious. I’ll never take us for granted.
“We’d better get downstairs,” I say. “People will be arriving before too long.”
Patrick leans in and kisses my cheek. I think he momentarily forgot that he has the beard on. He’s right, it’s scratchy, but I snuggle into him anyway, finding a spot on his cheek to kiss him back.
I open the office door and the two of us descend the old wooden stairs together, my hands running along the railing that’s seen years of families gripping it and probably sliding down it.
The intricate woodwork on the spindles whispers of a time when craftsmanship was honored and men took pride in the details of every carved curve.
This house needs work, but Liam, a local handyman, did a lot of the essential repairs before we opened.
He’s already lined up volunteers to help continue the restoration over the next few months.
The original Moss and Maple was built from my grandparents’ dream.
This one was founded by the community of Waterford.
They own this shop as much as I do, each one of their hearts beating through the walls lined with shelves of books, etched into the welcome mat on the porch, hung with the photos of donors along the back wall in the non-fiction room.
Patrick takes a seat in the wingback chair in the corner of our children’s nook, looking the part with the exception of those telltale dark brows of his.
I pull the two oversized cardboard boxes wrapped in gift wrap out so they flank the front door. The “price” of admission to our Holiday Story Hour with Santa is a wrapped toy for a local child in need.
Customers start to pour in around noon, moms with kids, sometimes the dad tagging along, holding a child’s hand or carrying one on his hip. Their eyes rove the store, taking in the string lights along the walls, and the sprigs of holly and pine lining the counter in front of the cash register.
Patrick’s deep laugh rolls through the shop between his booming “Ho, ho, hos.” A few kids ask to sit on his lap and he welcomes them.
I watch in awe, unable to keep myself from imagining our not-so-distant future when children with hair as dark as the night sky will crawl into those strong arms for their own story times.
A soft peace fills me, tangible and sweet. I can barely contain this new reality. It’s everything I couldn’t dare to let myself imagine or hope for—and Patrick is the heart behind it all.
Bells jingle as the door swings open again and again. The children’s nook fills and people spill out into the hallway beyond.
“Okay, kids from one to ninety-two,” Patrick says in a commanding tone that grabs the attention of even the most wiggly toddler. “Let’s all gather ’round so I can read you a few Christmas stories.”
Winona and Effie corral the kids and I join them at the back of the room, forcing myself to take my eyes off Patrick.
He starts in with How the Grinch Stole Christmas! Winona circulates quietly through the room, hunched low and handing out miniature candy canes.
Patrick looks around the room, and then in a voice that sounds like he actually wrote the story himself, he reads, “Every Who down in Who-ville liked Christmas a lot. But the Grinch, who lived just north of Who-ville, did NOT!”
Several kids who are familiar with the story shout out “Did not!” along with Patrick.
When he gets to the line where the Grinch says, “Oh, the noise!” He tells the kids to chant with him. And the noise, noise, noise, noise fills the rafters of the bookshop. Some children cover their ears, but their smiles give them away.
He ends with “Christmas Day will always be as long as we have we.” Then his eyes find mine and hold me—that familiar intensity drawing me like a magnet, promising holidays filled with us around trees, our family and our traditions—the connection we share only deepening with each passing year.
After Patrick reads 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, kids sit on his lap, whispering their wish lists or posing for photos.
I’m standing next to Patrick, helping corral the children who are eager to see Santa.
A preschooler named Mikey who is a regular at storytime shoots past me and charges toward Patrick’s lap.
His mom runs up behind him, but she’s not quick enough.
Patrick extends his arms wide. Mikey barrels into Patrick’s arms and grabs the itchy beard with toddler-on-a-mission determination.
He gives it a solid yank, shouting, “You not Santa! You da fie-wah-man!” The beard slips from Mikey’s fingertips, snapping back onto Patrick’s face, lopsided and revealing.
Laughter erupts from the parents gathered in the room.
Mikey’s mom catches up and takes him from Patrick’s lap, whispering something to him about Patrick playing pretend and “Could you help him play?” I think there may be a promise of cookies involved before Mikey nods his head in solemn agreement.
He reapproaches Patrick, cups his hand to his face and stage whispers, “I’m not tellin’ anybody you da fie-wah-man. You can bweetend.”
Patrick, with his beard rearranged to disguise his identity again, leans toward Mikey and whispers, “Thanks, buddy. I appreciate your support.”
I grab the attention of the moms in the room. “Don’t forget to grab your blind date with a holiday book on your way out!”
Winona softly tugs at my elbow and leans in. “There’s a woman at the register asking to see you.”